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  • Devika Gupta


As I cut the onions, mashed the tomatoes

Heated the oil, brought the water to boil

Sautéed the garlic, Threw in the macaroni

I realised, something else was cooking

Because the soup wasn’t good-looking

And the pasta was under.

But their clutter was the only dialogue

That cleared the smoke.

The conflict that rose and settled

Bandaged what was broke.

Nobody wanted it, the soup

It was cooked after dinner-time

In a rush, fifteen minutes to be precise

Everyone had it, to be nice

Alas, somebody had to digest

That whirlwind of a storm

Or it would lie hovering on my kitchen top

Besides my mind.

And I would keep ruminating over it

Like I did the raw bell peppers

In a bid to make sense

Of our reel in rewind.

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